


Kitchen of Dragons

by MapleTreeway



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cooking Competition, M/M, Major UST, added lotr fandom because characters, i saw this prompt and couldn't resist, slight elrondir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:39:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleTreeway/pseuds/MapleTreeway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this tumblr prompt where Thranduil is this famous Gordon Ramsay-esque chef/judge notorious for dishing out insults. Bard enters Thranduil's top-notch cooking competition to humor his kids, but somehow gets picked. And cue major UST throughout the competition between the two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Continuation of a prompt](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/105927) by essiefied. 



> Oh man oh man okay let's do this. I'm going to multi-chapter this fic because the prompt is _golden_ and deserves to have it be more than a one-shot.

Everyone who was anyone in the world of cooking knew who Thranduil Oropherion was. 

A top-shelf chef, he owned five of the world’s most pretentious yet delicious restaurants, all based on highly technical otherworldly dishes. Not a flaw ran throughout those kitchens; praise singing from food critics’ mouths. In order to get into such a restaurant, one would have to put a reservation sometimes months in advance.

Truly, his knowledge of food surpassed all but those of the greats. Hundreds of recipes were embedded in his mind, lying dormant until they could be used. There was a rumor floating around that he could be blindfolded and still manage to cook a three course meal without a hitch. Whether those tales proved accurate, no one really knew. But many wouldn’t put it past the blond chef. Deft were his slender hands while dicing or chopping or filleting – the knife dancing in a quick tune dangerously close to his spindly fingers. Yet no blood was ever drawn for years, and probably never would be.

Thranduil, despite being renowned for his restaurants and talent, also possessed something of a sharp tongue. Time and time again it showed on his hit television show _Kitchen of Dragons_. Contestants would cower before his tall stature as his words sliced their minds. “It amazes me,” he once said in regards to an undercooked chicken, “that you have not died yet. With a chicken this raw, it could be used in warfare.”

“W-Well, sir,” stuttered the contestant. “It’s not per –“

“Look at this! _Look at this!_ What in God’s green earth were you thinking when you took it out of the oven? That the Grim Reaper should dye his cloak pink?!”

Mild in comparison was it to some of the other, more colorful remarks he was infamous to making. Viewers at home practically shielded their children’s ears.

Bard never did, instead laughing with his children at the mortified expressions on the contestants’ faces.

A single father of three, he had learned to cook out of necessity. With an almost unreal intuition on taste, he could create a dish out of anything from his limited ingredients. And whatever he made blended perfectly. Granted, it took years without proper training to get it right, but somehow he managed. Mostly from watching cooking shows and taking note of what not to do.

One cooking show was, surprise surprise, _Kitchen of Dragons_. It had become something of a ritual, really. Every Friday night, Bard and his children sat down on the old couches to watch as Thranduil Oropherion humiliated contestants left and right. Most dishes looked amazing, all four of their mouths watering. Yet they were all posh, so the black-haired man never jotted them down.

It was during the season finale of the show that the ever so meddling ten-year-old spoke up. “Da,” she started, tugging on his sleeve. “Da, you should go on the show.”

Bard turned to her with a raised eyebrow. “Me?”

She nodded excitedly, dark brown hair falling in wisps across her face. “Mhm! Then you can be famous.”

Her tone was so comically serious, it took all of the father’s self-control to not laugh out loud. He couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice, however, when he asked, “You think so, Tilda?”

Tilda crossed her arms. “I know so.”

“I can’t cook half as fancy as what they’re expecting, you know.”

“I doubt Thranduil has even tasted anything that’s not gourmet,” Bain, the middle child, muttered to his older sister. Sigrid stifled a laugh.

Bard heard him and clapped his hands together. “Exactly,” he answered. “It’s a competition for gourmet chefs. Not home cooks.”

At that, Tilda deflated. Bard ruffled his daughter’s hair, to which she quickly batted away his hand with a half-hearted grumble. “We’ll see,” he said instead, humoring the ten-year-old. “Perhaps.”

That brightened her up a little. “’Kay.”

**\----**

So now here Bard stood a few months later.

In the kitchen.

But not just any kitchen – oh no.

This was _Kitchen of Dragons_.

How he managed to get on this blasted show was a mystery to him. He’d only gone through the paperwork and auditions to humor at first Tilda, then Bain and Sigrid as well. By no means did he expect to actually be _casted._ Or for his boss to grant him leave, for that matter.

And yet here he was, standing in the biggest kitchen he’d ever stepped foot in. Surrounding him were his other fellow contestants from all over the nation. While Bard had talked to a few, such as Kili Durin and Lindir Figwit (an unfortunate last name, Bard thought. Then again, his own wasn’t much better), he hadn’t gotten around to mingle with everyone. Directly to his left was a shorter man with untamable red hair and an equally mussed up beard; his smock spelling out the name Gimli in giant red letters across the front. Never in a million years would Bard have guessed the biker-looking man to be a gourmet chef, but on the other hand looks could be deceiving.

_Surely it couldn’t hurt to talk to him?_ Bard wondered, chewing his lip as he thought. _He seems like a nice enough fellow._

Gimli caught his eye not a second later. “You alright there, laddie?”

Bard started in surprise. “Ah yes, thank you. Just nerves.”

“Join the club.” The redhead snorted and started to drum his fingers on the counter. “D’you know how long I’ve been tryna get into this bloody competition for?”

“How long?”

“Two years.”

The father of three blinked in surprise. “Oh well that’s…that’s quite something.”

“It sure is. So what about you then? How long did it take you?”

Bard gave a weak smile and spread out his hands. “Not nearly as long as you, my friend.”

Gimli narrowed his eyes, and for a second Bard was afraid he’d overstepped the line; but then the biker-looking man let out a little laugh, eyes crinkling. “Is that so?”

“Aye. To be honest, the only reason why I’m here are because of my children. They forced me to audition, you see?”

“They sound like right little rascals.”

“Oh no they’re not at all! But when they want something, they put their minds to it.”

An expression of empathy and good humor crossed Gimli’s face. “Stubborn little rascals then,” he amended good-naturedly. He held out his hand, and Bard took and shook it. “My name’s Gimli,” Gimli said.

“Pleasure to meet you, Gimli,” Bard responded. “My name is Bard.”

“Heh. Nice to meet you t –“

“Cameras on in five!” A crew member informed everyone before dashing off to do something or another.

Their hands dropping to their sides, they each readied themselves. Gimli flattened – or tried to flatten – his mane and Bard smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles on his apron. “Good luck to you, Gimli.” Bard wished.

“You too,” Gimli said.

A cameraman called out, “We’re rolling in three, two…”

And then the cameras _were_ rolling, panning over the contestants’ faces before turning over to focus of the panel to the front of the room. Behind the panel were two other big, fancy doors, which were opening to reveal the judges.

The judges, who were even more gorgeous looking in real life than on TV.

Elrond Rivendell walked out first, a stern look on his face. Black hair fell over his shoulders in a straight wave, his light brown suit without a wrinkle. He walked ‘round the panel to stand before it, clasping his hands behind his back. A critical eye assessed the group before him, eyebrow raising just a tad.

Bard heard Lindir, who was behind him, stifle a gasp. He tried to hide his smile. Honestly, his newfound friend had zero chill when Elrond was mentioned. That much was made clear from early on.

The next to appear was Lady Galadriel. Tall, blonde, and impossibly fair, her face possessed a look of absolute wisdom. She wore a white, flowing dress with matching flats. Her hair cascaded down her back, flowers interwoven in small braids. As she walked to stand next to her fellow judge, Bard felt his stomach turn to knots. And not in the good way.

Last but not least was the famous, sassy Thranduil Oropherion. The knots in Bard’s stomach clenched harder from nerves, and suddenly he found it hard to breathe.

Television did not do Thranduil justice it seemed. His hair was an unfairly light shade of blond that fell in a waterfall down his back. Not a hair out of place. Thick, dark eyebrows that contrasted nicely sat atop ice blue eyes. His silver suit was pressed to perfection and fitted him in a flattering way. It didn’t look it on the screen, but the chef’s legs went on and on and on. The tallest of the three judges, Thranduil appeared to be aware that he commanded the room. And as soon as he took his place in front of the panel, he drawled, “Welcome to _Kitchen of Dragons_. Each of you here have managed to secure a spot in the kitchen’s top twenty.”

“Yet only one will emerge as the victor,” Elrond chimed in. “And in order to do that, some of you will be cut.”

Lady Galadriel smiled softly. “Worry not,” said she, “for it is a high honor to be here. For those five unfortunate contestants going home today, at least you know this.”

Ice slid down Bard’s spine. _Yes,_ he thought, _I am probably going home. I shouldn't even be here._

Thranduil’s eyes assessed the room, his face impassive. “For the first task you’ll face, it has no theme. Simply make a statement about why we shouldn't fire you.”

A buzz of either unease or confidence filled the atmosphere of the competition.

“The pantry is stocked full of ingredients; use it to your advantage,” Elrond advised.

“You have exactly sixty minutes to create the most important dish in your life.”

“Best of luck.” Galadriel said, her voice serene.

“On your mark –“

“Get set –“

“Cook!”

With that, the clock began to tick and the contestants were off running in the direction of the pantry. In his mind’s eye, Bard had an idea of what to make.

He just hoped it kept him in the competition.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa whoa whoa the amount of comments, kudos, and bookmarks! Dude that's _insane._ Thank you! Ily all (seriously tho I never expected it to garner so much attention omfg).  
>  So without further ado, here's chapter 2! You get it early this time because I'll be gone on the weekend.

It was chaos. 

People were dashing all over the place, muttering under their breath about ingredients. Some baskets were filled to the brim, while others weren’t even half full. Everyone knew that the faster they got their ingredients, the more time there was to create a dish. A dish that hopefully kept them in the competition. And while some seemed to navigate the pantry with ease, others got lost fairly easily.

Unfortunately, Bard was part of the latter.

He’d never, _ever_ had the privilege to step foot in such a place. The pantry was _huge_ \- bigger than anything he’d expected it to be like. Despite seeing it multiple times on television, Bard couldn't help but stare. Who could blame him? It was one thing to see it from home, and another thing to see it in real life. The feeling was like…like wanting to go somewhere for _so long_ and then _finally_ getting to go and oh God the place’s absolutely breathtaking and dizzying and intoxicating. 

To the right stood the refrigerators, which were also ginormous and probably packed with ingredients. Shelves that held spices, oils, flour, sugar, and other dry ingredients were located directly on the opposite wall. In the middle of it all were stalls of fruits and vegetables.

“Fucking hell.”

Bard turned to see Kíli behind him. The shorter man seemed just as awed as his fellow competitor, drinking in the sight.

“You got that right,” Bard muttered.

“I've worked in multiple restaurants before, but _damn_ I've never seen a pantry quite like this,” breathed Kíli. And before the other man could say anything more, he was off.

Shaken from his reverie, the single father of three decided to do the same. If there was any luck in the world, he’d be able admire the view a few more times. _If_ , Bard thought. After all, from what he knew at least, he was up against a bloody chef. _Well, might as well make the most of it…_

Five minutes later and Bard was back at his station. His basket wasn't impressively full, but neither was it empty. Inwardly he laughed at himself. It was absurd how he thought a seafood dish would make the cut. Especially when to the left of him Gimli was busy working on what looked like a fancy desert of some sort.

Unbeknownst to him, the judges were thinking the same thing. “What,” whispered Thranduil, “is he _doing_?”

“Who?” Galadriel asked. Her eyes scanned the room to try to find her colleague’s subject.

“The one in the plaid shirt. Third row.”

“Red hair or black?”

“Black.”

The woman tilted her head to the side slightly. She hummed absentmindedly for a few seconds before answering, “He’s making a seafood dish.”

“Without salmon.”

“So it would appear.”

“Does he not realize what kind of competition this is?” Thranduil turned to her, an annoyed expression on his face.

Lady Galadriel met his eyes easily. Her face betrayed the amusement she felt, eyes crinkling just the slightest. “I think he knows full well,” she said.

The sharp-tongued chef spluttered with indignation and crossed his arms. If there was one thing he hated, it was when amateurs who didn’t know parsley from basil somehow wormed their way onto an advanced television show like this. And a _hit_ television show at that, thank you very much. Audience amusement be damned. _That was probably the reason why he was casted,_ Thranduil thought. _Dear Lord and he’s grinning like an idiot too._

Time passed, and despite trying to turn his attention elsewhere, Thranduil’s eyes always seemed to stray back to the contestant in the faded blue plaid shirt. The apron read the name Bard, something the judge had been quick to notice. So Thranduil, despite himself, watched Bard with a growing curiosity. Surprisingly, Bard seemed as comfortable in the kitchen as the other competitors. Nonetheless he cooked like an amateur, never fully confident in his motions, never doing something outstanding; therefore Thranduil doubted he’d make it past the first round.

It was towards the end that Thranduil caught Bard doing something that came out of left field. With horror, the judge watched as the contestant seasoned the filet of fish before slowly dropping it in the pan.

“Oh no he is _not_.”

Galadriel, who had refocused her attention to overseeing the contestants, once again turned to look at Thranduil. “What is it now?” She questioned.

“He’s pan searing the fish! Doesn't he know that that could go wrong in a blink of an eye?”

“Calm down, Thranduil. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

“And pigs fly,” Thranduil replied. “Oh my God I cannot watch.”

From beside him, Galadriel sighed. “He’s _fine_. Have faith.”

\----

“Two minutes left! You should start plating your dish!” Elrond informed the contestants.

Bard checked the clock that hung on the wall out of habit. The pressure of the competition was getting to him. His heart was beating at a million times a minute, threatening to leap out of his throat. He’d cooked under a time limit a few times at home before. Yet it was never quite like this.

Turning his attention back to the food, he whisked the sauce once more before taking a spoon and dipping it in the dressing. With great carefulness, he plated it in zigzag lines. _What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck?!_ His subconscious screamed at him. _Are you **trying** to humiliate yourself?!_

Bard ignored it. When he was done, he moved onto the fish. After double checking to make sure it was seared correctly, Bard took it out of the pan and placed it on the plate. The halibut’s golden brown skin stared up at him ungarnished, naked. So the home cook decorated it with a little bit of micro-greens.

“Thirty seconds!”

The pressure was unreal. Wringing his hands, the black-haired man debated whether or not to add the lemon slices.

“Ten, nine, eight –“

 _Fuck it,_ Bard decided, putting a slice on each of the four corners. 

“…Seven, six, five –“

Wiping away any imperfections, Bard’s eyes flicked up to the judges’ panel. But that made him even more nervous, so he looked down again.

“…Three, two, and one. Hands in the air!”

And up the hands went. Letting out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, Bard looked around to survey the crowd nearby him. Gimli had a double layer chocolate cake with immaculate frosting, Lindir had a vegetarian-looking dish, and the woman next to him had made an Asian cuisine of some sort. Their dishes looked way fancier than his, Bard noticed dimly.

The movements of the judge’s walking around the room caught the single father’s attention. His heart threatened to go into overdrive as Thranduil walked along his row. The blond chef inspected first Gimli’s cake, then Bard’s own creation. His face was impassive throughout the whole ordeal, though his eyes widened slightly when the spied the halibut.

Bard prayed that was a good sign.

When it was Elrond and Galadriel’s turn to silently judge his dish, they didn't divulge anything. Not even a twitch of the lips.

A few minutes later and all three judges were seated behind the panel. Thranduil made the chair seem like a throne, sitting regally on it like it was his rightful place. Elrond looked somewhat normal, sitting on the edge. Lady Galadriel appeared nonchalant, her hands resting on the arms. They talked among themselves for a moment before Galadriel stood up. “Right,” she started, fingers tapping on the glass. “We have come to the conclusion on whose dishes we would like to see first. Would the following people come forward:

“Éowyn, Lindir, and Bard.”

A woman, who couldn't have been more than twenty, with golden hair made her way down to the front. Her purple shirt was wrinkled, her converse shoes coated in confectioner's sugar. Her jeans fared no better. Yet she held her head up high as if daring someone to challenge her. On her plate were six different flavored macaroons plated to lean against one another.

Lindir was up next, anxiousness etched onto his face. His long brown hair had been tied back into a braid, which now fell over his shoulder. In his hands, a plate that illustrated technicality and precision into an artwork of food. He seemed sure but unsure at the same time. A meek sort of confidence that seemed to fade the closer to the panel he got.

And then there was Bard. Grinning from nerves, about-to-face-certain-embarrassment, fuck-it-I'm-going-to-roll-with-it Bard. His apron was a mess. It told the tale of spilled flour. His heart beat so loudly, he was sure the whole room could hear. There wasn't any doubt in his mind that while his dish tasted delicious, it wouldn't be enough to keep him in the show. Not while up against macaroons and whatever the hell Lindir had made.

Thranduil assessed them all, ice blue eyes piercing through them. "Congratulations you three," he said in mock-sincerity, "for being the first three contestants to be judged this season. You must feel like a dog about to get tossed a treat."

Elrond side-eyed his colleague in warning.

The blond chef ignored him. "Éowyn! If you would, please describe your dish."

Éowyn walked to the panel, placed her tray down, and stepped back. "French macaroons in six different flavors," she said.

"Highly technical," Elrond mused.

"Tell me, Éowyn, why did you sign up for _Kitchen of Dragons_?" Galadriel asked, looking at her.

"So I can build a better life."

"For yourself?"

Éowyn nodded. "Back home, my father doesn't want me to man his restaurant. The most I can be is a waitress. I'd rather start my own restaurant - preferably French cuisine - than work over there. If I win _Kitchen of Dragons_ , then it'll give me the boost I need to start it up," she explained.

"Is your hometown small?" Thranduil inquired, raising an eyebrow. When the woman nodded once more, he made an amused sound. "Thought so."

"Christ, Thranduil," Elrond muttered under his breath. He tried to suppress the urge to face-palm. So instead, he lifted up a pink macaroon, eyes evaluating it. "Nice and light," he said in regards to the weight. He then put it back on the plate, took up the knife beside him, and cut it in half. "The shell could be a bit crisper, in my opinion. And you see how the filling is slightly bulging out? We do not want that. It has got to be even." He lifted a half to his mouth, took a bite, savored the taste, and swallowed. "However, it tastes spectacular. The strawberry flavor isn't overwhelmingly sweet. Good job."

Galadriel assessed the dessert next. "Oh dear," she muttered, slightly perturbed. "Look at that, please. They're not the same size; a few are bigger than the others." She repeated Elrond's motions on a blue macaroon, her lips turned downwards in a frown. "I agree with Elrond on the filling bit; that part needs a tad more work. However, the shell is delicate as it should be." A bite and a swallow. "It's creamy, airy, the texture is fantastic. I commend you, Éowyn, for taking such a bold risk."

"But does it pull off?" Thranduil wondered aloud. Without a word, he went through the motions. Only when he had finished eating did he say, "I agree with my colleagues here. You've got an alright, average macaroon. Tweak it in a few places, and it could be great."

Éowyn gave a small smile while she nodded. "Thank you."

As she walked back to stand beside Lindir, Thranduil caught Bard's eye. Ice slid down said contestant's spine, and somehow he knew he'd get called up next. 

And sure enough, he was.

"Bard," Thranduil said. "Bring forth your dish."

Bard walked forward and tried to remember how to breathe. As he placed his dish before the judges, Thranduil eyed him up and down, a predator to his prey. "Tell me," he began, "What kind of competition is this?"

Bard, who'd stepped back by now, answered, "One for gourmet chefs."

"Indeed. And have you ever worked in a restaurant or cooked gourmet before?"

"No."

All three judges shared a collective look that screamed Are-You-Shitting-Me? Thranduil just smirked slightly. "So why the bloody hell are you here?" The blond chef asked.

"Because I was casted," Bard sassed back.

Elrond looked torn between wanting to high five him and wanting to run away from the bombshell that would soon be dropped.

Galadriel had a smile on her lips and bemusement in her eyes as she watched the exchange.

Thranduil looked mildly surprised at Bard's bold answer, but quickly recovered. "What made you want to sign up? Did you do it as a joke?"

The black-haired contestant shook his head. "My children," he corrected with a fond smile. "To be quite honest, I never expected to get this far."

If the notorious foul-mouthed judge looked surprised before, it was nothing compared to the slack-jawed shock he showed now. _Oh fuck me,_ he thought. _He's not doing this for himself at **all**._

"Right!" Elrond interjected, desperate for a subject change. To be quite honest, he was unnerved at how his aloof colleague was reacting. "Describe the dish please."

Bard looked at him as he said, "Pan seared halibut with a lemon dill sauce, garnished with micro-greens."

"It's seared to perfection." The comment was made by Thranduil; the tone disbelieving.

Bard grinned and clasped his hands behind his back. Pride filled him, and for a second he thought that he had a chance. After all, _Thranduil Oropherion_ \- world's most famously renowned chef - had complimented his fish. That didn't happen every day. His children would be ecstatic when they watched this, he was sure. Especially Tilda. Drunk out of relief that perhaps he wasn't such a flop, Bard teased, "Surprised?"

A thick eyebrow raised. Not in malice, nor in annoyance; more of mirth. "Hardly," Thranduil said slowly, lips twitching upwards just a bit.

Elrond and Galadriel shared a look, and the former nodded before pushing the plate to Thranduil. Said judge picked up his fork and knife, cutting into the halibut carefully. Further surprised was he to find that it wasn't raw nor overcooked. _So he can cook,_ the silvery blond mused. He didn't dare say anything aloud, though. As that wasn't his fashion. Not sure what to expect, he tenderly speared a piece and brought it to his mouth.

And his mouth _exploded_. It was celestial, heavenly, amazing. The flavors sang in tune to each other, blending together. Letting the star - the halibut - shine, the dill and lemon serving as a background to lift it up. The texture added its own tune too. Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God. Thranduil had never experienced something so seemingly simple taste so divine. A moan threatened to make itself known, but Thranduil repressed it. His eyes slid closed for a second before snapping open again. Ice blue met grey, and Thranduil felt himself wanting _something_. He wasn't sure what exactly, but it was there.

He speared another piece, much to the panel's and Bard's surprise, and scarfed it down. Then another and another and another.

"Mind saving some for us?" Galadriel teased.

Thranduil shook his head no.

"It's only the first episode too." Elrond sighed, watching sadly as the dish was devoured.

When he was done, Thranduil steadied himself by taking a deep breath. "That," he started, looking Bard dead in the eye, "was one of the best dishes I've ever had."

Bard made a face of surprise. "Th - Thank you," he stammered. "That means a lot coming from you."

"How did you learn to cook so well?"

"Necessity, I suppose. And watching cooking shows like yours."

"Is that so? You might prove to be a force to be reckoned with then."

"Thank you."

A small smile tugged on Thranduil's lips as he watched Bard walk back towards his fellow contestants.

Elrond coughed, straightening out his suit. "Shame the rest of us couldn't taste it," he said with a pointed glare at his smitten colleague. "It looked as if it tasted as good as it appeared."

"A thousand times better," Thranduil remarked absently, still staring at Bard.

"I have no doubt," Elrond replied dryly. "Up next, Lindir."

\----

As luck would have it, Bard avoided elimination. As did Lindir and Éowyn. Gimli escaped by a hair, too. However, Kíli was cut along with four others. His steak had been a bit too raw for the judges' liking. _Well,_ Bard thought. _It could have been me._

Though from Chef Thranduil's reaction, he knew it couldn't have.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for not updating in a while. Writer's Block seriously sucks ;_; My schedule is hectic for the next two weeks (working on a short film for a contest and boy is that a lot of work ohmygosh) so I'm not sure if I'll be able to write as much as I would like. I'll try to update though! But if I don't, ya'll now know why.

The first thing Bard saw when he walked into the kitchen the next time were wooden boxes placed on top of everyone's counters. Knowing what that meant, a new set of nerves started to make themselves known. _Oh great,_ Bard thought as he walked to his station. _A mystery box challenge._

The second thing he noticed were that the judges, looking impeccably dressed as always, stood in front of the panel already. Their faces were impassive, their hands clasped behind their backs. Galadriel appeared to be rocking back and forth a bit, possibly from thinly veiled excitement, while Elrond merely looked around the room. Thranduil's eyes darted from contestant to contestant, never staying for more than a second. Except when Bard was concerned. Only then did he let his eyes linger for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary, a confused emotion flashing in his eyes. Yet it was gone as quick as it had come and his eyes danced around the room again.

Once everyone was at their stations, Galadriel stepped forward. “Welcome back!” She greeted. “Now that there’s fifteen of you, shall we tell you what you’re cooking for?”

A chorus of “aw yeah” and “yes” and head nodding went around the room.

“The first prize is the one and only _Kitchen of Dragons_ trophy. Quite an honor to have.”

“Second prize,” Elrond chimed in, stepping forward, “is a cash prize of 250,000. Please note that this prize is only available if you opt out of the third prize.”

Thranduil joined his colleagues’ sides. A smirk plastered on his face, he finished, “That being the option of working as a chef in one of my very own restaurants.” – he looked down at his nails – “But only if I find any of you lazy cowards fit for the job.”

Elrond wrinkled his nose and gave the blond a side-eyed glare. 

From his station, Bard tried to hide his smile.

“Right,” Galadriel said, unfazed. “So now that you know what you are competing for, it will make this challenge a bit more interesting. Please, lift the boxes.”

Taking the cue, Bard lifted the box up. It was surprisingly light despite its size, and underneath it were about a dozen high-end ingredients. Salmon, ginger, rice, shrimp, some sort of root looking thing, crispy seaweed, a flask of soy sauce, sugar, salt, vinegar, roe, vegetables, and crab. There were some foreign looking tools too, ones he’d never seen before in his life. Bard looked behind him to make sure Lindir was seeing the same thing he was, just to make sure he wasn’t tripping. It seemed like the brunet was, because he gave his friend a We-Are-So-Fucking-Doomed look. Bard grimaced in response before looking back at the judges.

Thranduil was watching him, that same confused expression in his eyes. Yet as soon as Bard met his eye, he looked away. “It may occur to some of you what the first mystery box is,” he said. “For those who are too oblivious to know, it’s quite simply this: sushi and nigiri.”

“Aren’t mystery boxes supposed to be theme-free?” A contestant asked.

“Are you challenging me, Bombur?”

Bombur, who was one line ahead of Bard, shook his head no.

The ice in Thranduil’s eyes didn’t fade. “As I was saying, tonight’s mystery box will _not_ be ‘theme-free’. So you better get used to it.”

“Make us the best sushi and nigiri you possibly can.” Elrond gave a wry smile. “With ingredients such as these, it cannot be _too_ hard.”

“The clock starts now. Good luck,” Galadriel dismissed.

And with that, the kitchen became pandemonium once more.

Thranduil watched Bard cook. In all honesty, he was quite curious to see if the dark-haired man could pull off tonight’s theme. A small part of him decided that he could, but the bigger part adamantly denied it. He’d seen chefs fumble through making sushi or nigiri, so it would surprise him big time if a measly home cook could do it. And it would definitely give Bard some new respect.

“You’re watching him again.”

Thranduil turned to Galadriel with a raised eyebrow. “I most certainly am not,” he replied tactfully.

Galadriel gave him a look. “What knife is he using?”

“The gyu – oh for Christ’s sake, Galadriel! _I’m not watching him._ ”

“Very mature, Chef Thranduil. Very mature.”

Said chef crossed him arms haughtily, red threatening to take over his face. Blue eyes forced themselves to look away to observe the other, less interesting contestants cook. Some knew what they were doing, such as Gimli, while others seemed perplexed, such as one named Alfrid. Thranduil wrinkled his nose in distaste. The latter wouldn’t survive the round.

Eventually standing in one place became boring, so the blond started to walk around the room. He went to Alfrid first, figuring he’d get a closer look at what the other was doing wrong. “How goes it?” He asked when he was a few feet away.

Alfrid’s eyes flicked upwards and back down again to where he was deep frying the salmon. A half-hidden sneer on his face, he fired back, “Why d’you care?”

Disbelief crossed Thranduil’s face for a second. _Well that was plain rude,_ he thought. “Pardon?”

“You ‘eard me.”

“Well maybe I wouldn’t give a damn if you weren’t frying the fish like its fucking chicken,” Thranduil spat out, pointing to the fryer. Where Alfrid even got that, he had no clue. All he knew was that he had zero tolerance to disrespect. 

Alfrid drew himself up to his (incredibly pitiful, in the chef’s mind) height. He met Thranduil’s eyes, the sneer on his face now out in the open. “Ain’t that how sushi goes?”

“No, that’s _not_ how sushi goes. You’re frying _salmon_. What has it ever done to you?” When the contestant didn’t answer, the judge bit out, “Fix it.” Then he stalked away, seething from intolerance.

From behind him, Alfrid muttered, “Pisspotted wanker.”

Thranduil turned around quick upon hearing that. “Say that to my face. I fucking dare you.”

All eyes were now on them and the room grew tense. The blond’s face was twisted into a livid expression, while the black-haired man’s face possessed something more of an arrogance. But Alfrid said nothing, instead just crossing his arms and making a face.

And Thranduil blew up.

“Look at this shit!” He roared, running back and banging his fist on the counter. He leaned close to Alfrid’s face as he pointed once again to the deep fryer. “There’s a _salmon_ in the _deep fryer._ What the fuck are you thinking, you absolute shit eating dick?! Think you can bullshit your way through this competition, do you?”

“No, Chef,” Alfrid replied.

“Where did you even get that in the first place?”

“From the side room.”

Thranduil pulled back and peered down his nose at the smaller man in disdain. “It’s a mystery box challenge. That is not allowed, you arrogant prick.”

Alfrid had the decency to look slightly fearful.

“Get your fucking fish out of the deep fryer and _fix it_! Disrespectful sack of horseshit.”

With another fist bang on the table, Thranduil left. Every contestant he passed threw him a terrified look, afraid they would be on the receiving end of his fury. Some tried to hide their nervous smiles. But Thranduil merely walked through the lines, overseeing everything. 

Elrond did so too, a stern look on his face. He didn’t blow up on anyone – that was Thranduil’s job – but he did ask questions. What the contestant was doing, how they were doing it. It gave him insight as to who was better qualified and who had different techniques and who was or was not bullshitting the competition. There was one contestant, Lindir, who fumbled a bit at first, but quickly got back on track. When Elrond questioned why, the younger man had admitted to not having made sushi or nigiri in a long time.

“I find that hard to believe,” Elrond mused thoughtfully, watching the other work. “You seem quite at ease.”

A slight red rose to Lindir’s cheeks. “T-Thank you,” he said as he deftly cut the vegetables. “But I really haven’t cooked anything like this since freshman year at college.”

“Which was how long ago?”

“Ten years.”

The judge blinked in shock. “That is a long time indeed,” he agreed. Then he hummed thoughtfully before continuing, “Everything appears to be in order, though. So you’re doing something right. Memory has yet to fail you, Lindir.”

The response was a small smile.

Not known to them was the fact that Bard, one line in front and very well within earshot, was eavesdropping on their conversation. It was a poor substitute to the music he usually listened to when he cooked (Arctic Monkeys could never be topped, really), but it did amuse him. His friend was undoubtedly blushing, that much was guaranteed. Bard would bet his right hand on it.

“Thought of a funny joke?” A voice inquired.

Grey eyes flickered upwards to meet blue ones before flickering back down again to concentrate on putting the rice on the nori. “Nah,” Bard answered nonchalantly.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you smiling?”

Bard met the judge’s eyes as he partly-lied, “Just happy to be here I suppose. That isn’t a crime, surely?”

“No it is not. Tell me, Bard, why do you think you should stay?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

The blond leaned on the counter and assessed the contestant up and down with his eyes. That weird feeling came back, but he ignored it. There was something about the other man he could not place. He was rugged in a handsome sort of way (something that Thranduil found incredibly attractive). And he really did seem to enjoy cooking (not to mention was pretty well at it, if last time was anything to go by). And he appeared grounded and down to earth (Thranduil had yet to see a flicker of arrogance, but the game was still young). Yet there was something more. Something Thranduil could not name. It was this unexplainable vibe Bard gave off.

“You have no gourmet experience,” Thranduil replied after a moment, crossing his arms casually. He shrugged for good measure.

Bard wasn’t fazed, instead flipping the rice upside down. “True.”

“And that doesn’t bother you at all?”

“Nope. I prefer to learn on the job.”

Thranduil made an amused sound, his previous foul mood totally gone. “Well I’ll leave you to it then, Bard. Good luck.”

Bard tried to keep his eyes from widening as he watched the judge leave. _Did he – oh fuck. He wished me good luck,_ Bard thought, heart beating a million times a minute. _He wished me good luck! He never wishes **anyone** good luck._

“You’ve got twenty minutes!” Galadriel called out from in front of the panel.

That shook Bard out of his shock, and he started to work a bit faster. If only to make up for lost time.

\----

Twenty minutes later and everyone’s hands were in the air. One by one, contestants were called up to the panel to be judged. It was nerve-racking to wait, especially when the judges had made some pretty…obscene…comments on a few of the dishes. Thranduil had even spat out the food at one point – but then again, that dish had belonged to Alfrid, so go figure there.

Bard shifted from foot to foot, wringing his hands. What he wouldn’t give to just disappear. Just nope on out. Which was stupid, since he was pretty sure he did a fairly decent job on something he had never made before. But whether it was enough to keep him out of the bottom three, he was unsure.

“Bard, bring up your dish.”

The comment was made by Galadriel, and it released a thousand butterflies inside of Bard’s stomach. He was one of the last few to be judged. By now, the judges seemed somewhat disgruntled behind their professional masks. And when Bard placed his dish in front of them, they eyed it critically. “Explain the dish,” Galadriel instructed.

“Salmon nigiri and a California roll sided with wasabi and soy sauce,” Bard answered, stepping back a bit.

“Ever cooked sushi or nigiri before?”

“Yes, a few times before.”

Galadriel blinked slowly. With her chopstick, she lifted one of the filets off of a rice ball. Light blue eyes evaluated it, turning it this way and that. “It’s properly cut,” she mused. Then she set the salmon down, turned to the rice ball, and poked it. The rice fell at parts, which sent jolts of alarm through Bard. “However, the rice isn’t sticking together very well. How long did you cook it for?”

“About eight minutes?”

“And there lies your fault,” Galadriel said as she made eye contact with him. “You are supposed to cook it for ten minutes or longer, if need be.”

Embarrassment rose within the contestant, but he nodded anyway. So he tripped up a bit, so what? They had yet to taste his dish (Bard vehemently hoped they didn't spit it out).

Fortuanetly for him, the blonde didn't spit out the nigiri. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, but other than that there was no tell-tale signs to show if she disliked it. The only comment she made after she ate it was "Pretty good, the wasabi is strong," then she pushed it over to Elrond. Elrond, who rolled his eyes. With his own chopstick, he picked up one California roll, inspected it closely, and pursed his lips. "I agree with Galadriel here, the rice needs to be cooked longer. The filling is alright." _For an amateur_ hung off the end of the sentence, unspoken. But Bard knew it was there all the same.

The judge dipped the sushi into the soy sauce and took a bite, looking upwards in thought. "The flavors are even, except for the avocado. It dominates a bit too much."

Thranduil sighed in impatience, taking the plate and picking up his chopsticks. "Let's get this over with, shall we?" He drawled, making a big show of picking up a sushi piece. Pale blue eyes eyed it before he put some wasabi on it, ate it slowly, and swallowed. The flavors weren't as intense as before. Which was disappointing, but Thranduil guessed that last time was a one time thing. "I agree with Elrond and Lady Galadriel. This is mediocore at best. For shame." He said at last, slightly troubled.

Bard bowed his head, said his thanks, and left to go back to his station. He felt humilated to the core.

\----

It came as no surprise when Bard was placed in the bottom three. In fact he saw it coming. Now the only thing preventing him from going home was a pressure test. If he won, he survived another day. If he didn't, then that was that.

God he hoped he survived.

To his left stood Alfrid, a sneer permanently on his face. To his right stood a contestant named Alice, standing with her hands on her giant hips. There was no competition with Alfrid - the man said he cooked in a high end restaurant for a living, but Bard knew his attitude was rotten. Rotten attitudes were one of the many things that sent people home, so Alfrid was on borrowed time already. Bard had every confidence he'd make it farther than him at least.

As for Alice...the single father wasn't sure. She was a strong cook from what he could tell. And she had this fiery persona that was present inside the kitchen and outside it too. The woman wanted to be there, and she would fight to the end in order to. This, she had said in the hotel yesterday when they had met, was her dream. Her passion. Her everything. The determination in her brown eyes was alarming, it reminded Bard of a lioness. Yes, Alice was his biggest worry here.

The rest of the contestants were up in the balcony, watching them in silence. Their eyes were wide like saucers, drinking in the first ever pressure test from the comfort of their safety.

Bard wished he were up there too.

"Tonight's elimination test," Thranduil started suddenly, clapping his hands together, "is quite simple. Make us a perfect soufflé in one hour. Time starts now...go!"

 _Well fuck,_ Bard thought, dashing off to the pantry. _Damn it all to hell._


End file.
